


Revelatory Experiences

by Teland



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: BDSM, Companionable Snark, First Time, Hair-pulling, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Military Kink, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Pre-Series, Pseudo-Incest, Romance, Rough Oral Sex, teaching kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 12:23:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7103221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Treville —" </p><p>"I'm sorry, I just — I'm not *hard* anymore. I think we found a cure for being *sixteen*." </p><p>Laurent *coughs* — but. "Perhaps the priests are on to something with all of their incessant *floggings*." </p><p>"No, sir." </p><p>"No...?" </p><p>"Priests are never right, sir."</p><p>Laurent smiles helplessly. "About anything, recruit?" </p><p>"Nothing at all, sir."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. No.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_Jack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_Jack/gifts), [Outcastspice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Outcastspice/gifts).



> Disclaimers: Not mine, except for what is.
> 
> Spoilers/Timeline: Not even remotely. Takes place long before the show starts.
> 
> Author's Notes: Still working on digging myself out of that hole. Close readers may recognize aspects of this scenario from ending #3 of [finer than sand](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5939706), but you really don't have to read that one first.
> 
> Acknowledgments: Much love to Pixie, Melly, Spice, and, of course, my Jack for love, support, and helpful suggestions. You guys are the best. Extra hugs to Sergei for catching my French whoopsies again. <3

Treville was showing off, of course. 

Laurent hadn't needed that particular report from the horrified and chastened recruits — minus Honoré, who was naturally at Treville's side. Treville is far too talented to take such an injury — 

Such a serious — 

No. Laurent will examine the injury for himself. 

He will not — 

("But will he have to be sent *home*, Lieutenant?")

He will *not*, and that is final. 

Once in the makeshift surgery, set up haphazardly as ever while the regiment is on maneuvers, he finds Treville and Honoré quickly. The surgeons have already left them, and they are both as pale, as ashen, as — 

No. 

Treville is twisted into a horribly-uncomfortable-looking position, and his torso is swathed in bandages. He and Honoré are whispering desperately to each other — 

Making promises? 

Reassuring each other? 

Right now, it doesn't matter. Right now — 

Honoré registers his presence first, and touches Treville's hand. They both do their best to come to attention without moving a muscle. 

Laurent sees no need to chastise — not in this moment. "What did the surgeons say." 

Treville turns away. 

No — 

"Sir... they said there was nothing they could do. They said. They said he probably wouldn't heal right. That — that his back was wrenched all to hell and — I'm sorry, but —"

"That's quite all right, Honoré. I have a solution." 

Treville makes a derisive noise, disrespectful as ever. "*What* solution, sir? I have to — to somehow tell my *father* —" 

Laurent holds up a hand. "You'll tell your father nothing." 

Both Honoré and Treville blink at him. Which — he supposes that's fair enough. 

He's being unorthodox again. There's nothing for it. "I have been in deep, detailed correspondence with Armand Delacroix, a former long-gunner of ours who had a similar injury to yours a bit more than a year and a half ago, Treville —" 

"And he's not *here* —" 

"No. He went home to his *wife*, who *healed* him." 

Honoré and Treville blink at him again. 

Laurent nods. "I asked him multiple times to come back to us — he was a very *talented* gunner — but he was adamant about his newfound desire to remain close to home. He has, however, shared with me his wife's numerous techniques for healing injuries such as yours." 

"Bloody buggering — and the surgeons wouldn't *listen*?" 

Laurent *looks* at Honoré. 

"Right, no, no one listens to you but us, and us only sometimes, got it. Fearless —"

"You — you can fix this?" And Treville's voice is smaller than Laurent's ever heard it, more full of hope, of *need* — 

Laurent wants to make it *strong* again, derisive and mocking — 

All he does is stand straight. "I fully intend to do my best, recruit. I've already spoken to the appropriate authorities — you'll be in my care for the foreseeable future." 

"I — but — you have so much to *do* —" 

"And it all *will* get done. Honoré, fetch the cartmen. We're moving Treville to my tent immediately." 

"*Fuck* — I mean — yes, sir!"


	2. I could've used some doctors like this.

The actual *wound* on Treville's back is quite minor, but still must be kept fresh and well-aired until it heals enough for Laurent to work on the muscle damage. Treville grizzles near-constantly about that, but — 

But. 

Laurent knows that he's impatient to see what else Laurent can do for him, impatient to see what his own *body* can do for him, fearful — 

Treville should never be fearful, for all that Laurent will never call him by the name 'Fearless'. 

*Can* never do that. It would be incorrect on any number of levels. 

He allows Honoré time to visit with Treville every day — it's simple, observable truth that happier patients heal faster, and they have always been inseparable — and Honoré has taken to bringing Treville small presents.

Things for him to fiddle with while he lies abed, treats from the cooks — Laurent dutifully ignores Honoré's decidedly unauthorized hunting — toys for much younger boys — seemingly anything he can get his hands on. 

Treville is grateful for each and every gift, and savours them all as they're meant to be savoured — though Laurent has to be very cagey to catch him doing it with the toys. 

There are... 

There is so much warmth, to see him happy for even brief moments.


	3. Nothing says love like...

Finally, the wound is healed to Laurent's satisfaction — 

"Are you *sure*? I could try to grow another twenty-eight layers of skin if that would make you happy, sir —" 

"Quiet," Laurent says, and rolls Treville fully onto his side — 

Treville gasps — 

Bites his lip — 

With every candle lit, it's easy to see the tight and spasming muscles, the sweat breaking out all over his body —

It has been like this every time Laurent has helped Treville relieve himself, but the clarity is...

Well. They have a lot of work to do. 

He lays Treville back down in the position he knows is most comfortable for him —

Retrieves the blanket -- 

"What — what are you doing — "

"Making you warm." 

"It's bloody July!" 

"For the first stages of the healing to work, your body must be as warm and loose as possible," Laurent says, and *looks* at Treville. 

Treville scowls pugnaciously — but subsides, and starts breathing evenly. 

"Excellent," Laurent says, and gets a second blanket. 

After five minutes: 

"This is intolerable." 

"No, it isn't." 

"You're not under here with me!" 

"Very good observation, recruit," Laurent says, and works on his notes. 

After another ten minutes: 

"I'm *broiling* under here!"

"That's fascinating." 

"*What's* fascinating?" 

"The lack of an odor of cooking flesh."

Treville is silent for long moments. 

And silent — 

Laurent wonders if he's gone to *sleep* — 

And then Treville snickers hard and long and — painfully, by the sound of the viciously half-repressed cries punctuating the laughter. 

Laurent grins helplessly. He hardly ever gets that reaction from Treville — 

It's been so long since he's *heard* that kind of unguarded — but. 

"I should probably stop you from doing that..." 

"I'm still broiling under here!"

"Perhaps the blankets are muffling your undoubtedly delicious aromas —" 

"Oh my *God*, sir," Treville says, laughing *harder* — 

Laurent smiles down at his notes. 

He hasn't the faintest clue what they say.


	4. He knows what he needs to do.

"I can think of a few better uses for that oil, sir," Treville says, and he clearly means to sound teasing and ribald — Laurent has had time to grow accustomed to his sense of humour — but the pain is adding far too much tension. 

"I doubt that, at the moment," Laurent says, and continues to work at the muscles as carefully and firmly as he's able. 

"I thought — thought you had — faith in me?" 

There's more to that question than a tease. Far more. "I have *every* faith in you," Laurent says, and puts everything he can in his voice, his tone, his *touch* — 

Treville *grunts* — and is silent except for his panted breaths. 

"Try to —"

"Even — even my — fuck. *Fuck* —" Treville takes a *ragged* breath, holds it, and then releases it slowly.

Inhales much more steadily — 

Exhales slowly — 

"Good, I'm almost finished for now." 

"No, keep going —" 

"Shh, breathe —" 

"Sir —" 

"Breathe. Delacroix was adamant that rushing the process could cause — and had caused, with him — very dangerous setbacks." 

"Fuck — *fuck*. I *hate* this." 

Laurent resists the urge to speed his ministrations. To — there is hurt, for this. "I know." 

"I hate making you — making you *cater* to me!"

Laurent blinks — 

Regroups — 

"You're not." 

"Of bloody *course* I am —" 

"Shh. Breathe," Laurent says, and keeps working, keeps — 

"Sir —" 

"Shh. You're not making me do anything I don't want to do. You could never be a burden to me. Please stop thinking that way." 

Treville swallows with a hard click.

Pants — 

Pants *more* — 

"Recruit —" 

"I don't know if I can."

Laurent frowns and pauses — 

"Shit — I'm sorry, I'm —" 

"Shh, wait. You're too tense for me to continue right now," Laurent says, and rolls Treville onto his back, covering him with the blanket again — 

"Fuck, I'm *sorry* —" 

"*Breathe*." 

Treville *grunts* — and breathes. 

"Good. Breathe out now... yes, like that," Laurent says, and wipes his hands on a rag, crouching down beside the bed. "Breathe in." 

Treville nods and obeys. 

"Good. Now breathe out again. Slower than that... yes, good." 

Treville shudders — and goes loose, frowning — 

Laurent cups his forehead and then strokes over his hair. He needs a trim. He likes his hair shorter than this. "Keep breathing." 

Treville nods and obeys. 

"We're making progress, Treville. We *will* beat this." 

Treville's breathing hitches — just once, but — 

"No, breathe evenly." 

"Yes, sir," Treville says, and adjusts his breathing properly. 

"Good, keep that up. As I was saying, we will triumph over your current injury, and, in so doing, be able to help men injured in similar ways throughout the Army."

Treville loses a significant amount of tension for that, which is... not at all surprising. 

And warming in and of itself. "Yes, Treville. Right now, you're *helping* me *change the Army*. I daresay you'll be doing that in myriad ways before everything is said and done."

Treville looks at him then, wide-eyed and — and *needy* — 

And it makes Laurent want to — 

But he's already touching Treville, and he'll soon be touching him even more. He has to finish the massage. He has to — 

Why doesn't that seem like enough? 

What possible — but he can ask. "Treville?" 

Treville smiles ruefully. "You always... make plans. You always..." He shakes his head. "You're always thinking five or ten years ahead of the rest of us." 

"Hardly that far —" 

"No more than three or four...?" 

Laurent knows, occasionally, when he's being jested with. "It's only prudent, recruit," he says, and strokes Treville's soft hair one more time before pulling back. "Are you ready for more of the treatment?" 

"Yes, sir," Treville says, smiling with a *bright* wryness — 

His face is shining with sweat — 

Laurent wants — 

He isn't certain what he wants to do, but he knows what he *needs* to do. 

He does it.


	5. There is no actual cure for being sixteen. Or twenty-four, for that matter.

Laurent wakes to the sound of uneven breathing — *ragged* breaths —

*Treville's* ragged — 

He's moving before he's truly thinking — 

"Oh — *fuck*, why can't you be a heavier *sleeper*?"

"Because I'm a soldier," Laurent says, lighting the candle at Treville's bedside with flint and steel. "Why were you trying to move on your own? Were you in some distress?" 

"I have to *piss* —"

"You should have —"

"Don't *scold* me — I'm sick of —" Treville growls and lets himself fall back to his specially built-up pallet. Too hard, but — 

It's still improvement. And, at this point, Laurent suspects Treville was too proud a man to endure this sort of treatment with good grace when he was still in infancy. 

At nearly seventeen, he is... 

Laurent swallows and crouches by the bed. He turns the blanket back — it had been a battle to get Treville to sleep with one every night, but he had won it — and Treville is... hard. 

Not fully so, that much is clear, even with his breeches laced, but...

Laurent looks to Treville's *face* — he's turned away. 

And this — 

It hasn't — come up. 

Juvenile laughter echoes in Laurent's mind, but, thankfully, doesn't try to leave his mouth. 

It's been close to three weeks, and — 

Laurent should have expected this. 

Laurent should have *planned* for this — or. 

He leaves Treville *alone* with Honoré every day, and their friendship is as intimate as it could be. Perhaps they...?

"If you. If you leave me alone... I'll be fine." 

Laurent blinks and stops *maundering*. "That's patently ridiculous. You have to urinate, and you aren't yet flexible enough —" 

"*Sir* —" 

"— to do so without *help*," Laurent says. "We can discuss the other matter at another time —" 

"Fuck —" 

"Watch your *language*, recruit."

"Bloody *hell* —" 

"Was that distracting enough?" 

"*No*!" 

Laurent rests one hand on Treville's chest — his heart is pounding. "Treville. Breathe." 

"Sir —" 

"No. Breathe." 

Treville turns away — and breathes. 

And breathes — 

And breathes properly. 

Laurent tries to understand the parts of himself which wanted Treville to continue looking at him, to continue seeing him in *this* moment, when they both know that Treville is aroused — 

But why is that relevant? 

It's an *inconvenience* they have to *work* around — and Treville is looking at him again, eyes wide — 

Eyes so wide and *hungry* — 

Oh — yes. This look is even better than the other — 

This look is — 

Is — 

But he has work to do. "Have you masturbated since your injury, Treville?"

"I *can't* —" 

"Perhaps with Honoré's... assistance?" 

Treville blushes like a boy. 

Laurent doesn't know what that answer is. He raises an eyebrow. 

"I. I can't ask him for *that*!"

"He's your dearest friend. I feel certain that it's not something he'd mind —" 

Treville's coughs — and then almost barks a cry as his back very clearly complains bitterly. 

Visions of Treville coming down with a summer ague fill Laurent's mind, and he winces hard, stroking Treville's torso in the long, firm motions which sometimes ease the spasms. 

"Ah — fuck — *fuck* —"

"Shh, just breathe, Treville. Just breathe." 

"I'm — I'm trying, sir — please..." 

"Yes? Tell me what you need." 

"More — turn me over. Stroke — my *back*." 

"Of course," Laurent says, and does just that, moving as quickly as is safe and then stroking firmly, firmly — 

Treville groans after a long moment. "Oh — fuck. Even without the oil, that's good." 

"Yes?" 

"Yes, sir," Treville says, and sighs. And then laughs — 

And winces — 

And makes many small *pained* noises — 

"Treville —" 

"I'm sorry, I just — I'm not *hard* anymore. I think we found a cure for being *sixteen*." 

Laurent *coughs* — but. "Perhaps the priests are on to something with all of their incessant *floggings*." 

"No, sir." 

"No...?" 

"Priests are never right, sir."

Laurent smiles helplessly. "About anything, recruit?" 

"Nothing at all, sir." 

"I *see*. Have you and Honoré taken up discussing heresy in my absences...?" 

"Not a bit of it, sir. Just the usual whoring, drinking, and gambling." 

"How *many* of the seven deadly sins has this tent been witness to since you moved in?" 

"No more than five or six, sir."

Laurent grins just — "Yes...?" 

"My appetite's been a bit peaked. I haven't been able to manage the gluttony despite Honoré's best efforts, sir."

"I'm sure he'll redouble them." 

"Yes, sir, undoubtedly... um..." 

"Mm? What is it?" 

"I have to piss still," Treville says, sounding sheepish. 

The palm of Laurent's right hand... aches. 

Right where Treville's shaft will rest. 

"One moment," Laurent says, ignoring the mystery for the time being and turning Treville over onto his side. 

He can rest for longer periods in that position now, but it's still not the best — 

Laurent unlaces Treville's breeches, notes that he's either still a little hard or *getting* hard again, and then retrieves the chamberpot. 

He holds the chamberpot in his left hand and Treville's thick, perfectly-formed cock in his right — 

The skin is so soft — 

There are times when he wonders what it would be *like* to stroke, but of course he knows that from his own cock — 

Or would it be different?

Treville shudders and begins to urinate, and — 

And Treville has never *minded* Laurent's questions, and perhaps — 

For all that the circumstances are very different from the two of them masturbating together while Treville is technically on punishment — 

"Treville..." 

"Y-yes, sir?" 

"When you're masturbating another man —" 

"Oh fuck —" 

"Or a boy, I suppose —" 

"Oh *fuck*," Treville says, and his cock twitches *violently*. 

Only quick reflexes and a squeeze saves them both from being *spattered* with urine — 

"Fuck — I'm sorry!" 

"It's quite all right — you found that fragment of a question affecting?" 

"Um." And Treville is staring at him wide-eyed, again, and just a little slack-jawed. "Could you... finish... the question?" Treville has stopped urinating. 

"Hm. Are you finished urinating?" 

"No?" 

"Perhaps you should finish." 

"Fuck," Treville says in a *small* voice before gritting his teeth and — finishing. There's only a little left. 

Laurent shakes him off, sets the chamberpot aside to be dumped and cleaned in the morning, rolls Treville back into the most comfortable position, and tucks him away. He's harder. He's — 

And Laurent is still thinking about stroking him. 

There's a regret to tying the laces, a sense of something unfinished — 

"Sir?" 

"Mm? What is it?" 

"You're frowning. Is there something —" 

"Oh, there's nothing..." Laurent frowns more deeply. "No. There's a mystery rather attacking my mind at the moment, and I don't know what to do with it." 

Treville blinks. "Does it... have... something to do with masturbation?" 

"Yes." 

"I..." 

"Or rather, with masturbating other men."

Treville makes a *strangled* noise, but it's quiet — 

"There has to be another word for that — is there?"

"I... usually just refer to it as... tossing another man off, sir," Treville says, blushing again. 

Blushing far more than he almost certainly would were he in the middle of the *act* — 

Laurent has *seen* him with grown men on their *knees* to him — 

Multiple *times*, and it always — 

It always makes Laurent catch his breath, always makes him want to —

Want to — 

"Sir...? You can ask any question..."

Laurent licks his lips, and stares down into Treville's eyes, and realizes that a part of him wants only to crawl back into his own bedroll and shove his right hand into his mouth and masturbate himself *brutally* with his left.

It's been... a long three weeks.

And there isn't a cure for being twenty-four, that Laurent has found. 

"Sir —" 

"What does it *feel* like to masturbate another man, Treville?" 

"I — sir?" 

"Does it feel the same? Does it feel... awkward? The angles involved, as an example. Does the softness of the skin seem more special, more *important*? Do you enjoy doing it as much as you enjoy other acts?" And — Laurent stops there, because he senses a *flood* of questions coming, and he can't — 

He's already *looming* over Treville — 

"Tell me, please." 

Treville grins and nods. "Of course, sir. It *doesn't* feel the same. It feels — nothing like touching yourself. Even when you think to yourself 'oh, this bloke's tackle looks a lot like mine, right down to the little curl on the foreskin.' It feels *very* different. And it was awkward at first, but you catch the rhythms and angles of it quick — I'd say not far into the first time you do it —" 

"*Really*. You don't think your own physical prowess was playing a role? You've always been a very graceful young man."

"That's very kind of you to say, sir, especially when I feel like a bag of rusty hinges in a damp cellar —" 

"You're getting *better*." 

"I know, I know," Treville says, and makes a soothing gesture. And grins again. "It's um. Most people *do* get it fairly quickly, sir. From what I've seen and heard." 

Laurent nods thoughtfully. "And my other questions?" 

"The softness of the skin is just... uh. Well, it's incredible, sir. It's amazing. I love it. I always want it. Sometimes my palms just *hurt* from wanting to feel..."

"What? What is it? Why did you stop?" 

"I — the look on your face, sir. Are you well?" 

Laurent wets his lips again, and wonders why he's not just *saying* 'sometimes my palms ache for your cock', wonders what's stopping his — his *words* — 

"Sir?" 

"I... have felt... similar things," Laurent says, and feels craven, weak, *small* before his best and most beautiful recruit. 

"You... have?" 

Laurent feels himself flush *hard*. "I've felt..."

"Sir?"

"Do you *like* it, Treville? Do you like it the way you like — you've told me, a little, about how much you enjoy fellatio." 

Treville *grunts* — "Yes, sir. I — I prefer... getting my cock sucked. But sometimes, when I think about holding a cock in my hand, *working* a cock in my hand, touching it in all the right ways... well." Treville grins ruefully. Sweetly. "Sometimes I wonder *why* tossing blokes off isn't my favourite thing." 

"And having it done to you?" 

Another blush. "I think about... calluses on me. Soldier's calluses. I haven't had that." Treville laughs. "Other than my own. Does that... answer your questions?"

For an awful moment, Laurent wants to lie and say no. Wants to do anything he can to keep Treville *talking*, and then — 

And then *something*. 

But Treville needs rest. He —

But. 

Laurent looks down.

Treville is still hard. Harder, now, than he was...

"Sir...?"

And there's a voice — there are many voices — telling him not to do this — 

Not to open his mouth to *say* this — 

Not to — "Treville..." 

"Sir, what's *wrong*? You have to — you have to know if there's something *I* can help you with, then everything *about* this will be better for me." 

Oh. 

That quiets the voices for — a long moment. 

Long enough for Laurent to lean in, close and closer, long enough for Laurent to — 

"Sir — *mm* —" 

But — "I've never asked you if you enjoy kissing. I apologize —" 

"Oh fuck. Oh — oh, *fuck* —" 

"Do you like it? May I — I want to do it again." 

"Sir —" 

"I want... to make you spend," Laurent says, *realizes*, and he's all but whispering into Treville's *mouth* — 

He should pull *back* — 

He can't seem to — 

He can't — 

"I want to *touch* you —" 

"Please don't make me *buck*, sir!"

Laurent growls and *grips* Treville's hips — 

"*Fuck* — " 

"Is this *better*." 

"Oh, *God*, sir —" 

"Is it?" 

"Yes, sir, yes — please — please do what you *want*!"

Laurent *pants* into Treville's mouth — 

Treville shivers and *groans*, obviously *trying* not to strain his — his *beautiful* body — 

It — 

The possibilities opening up in front of them both are so —

But he has to ask questions. This has to be *clear*. 

"Do you find that thought *arousing*."

"What? Which? Please, sir —" 

"Me doing... exactly what I want with you." 

Treville *whimpers* — and his cock *jerks* behind his breeches. 

"I'll take that as an answer." 

"Please do!" And Treville grins as if — as if Honoré had given him another gift. 

"I..." And Laurent kisses Treville again lightly, kisses him again, and again — 

Treville *shakes* — 

*Moans* — 

But. 

Laurent growls. "Show me how to do this *properly*."

"I — yes, sir, anything, sir, anything you want. Come down —"

And this time, when Laurent kisses Treville, Treville parts Laurent's lips with his own, slips his *tongue* into Laurent's mouth — 

Laurent *groans* — 

*Sucks* — 

Holds Treville *tighter* when he starts to strain — he goes loose immediately. Good boy.

Laurent sucks his tongue in pulses, licks it, tries to urge it to do *more* — and then Treville nods and begins to *thrust* with his tongue, slick and slow and *insinuating*, and Laurent has to do that immediately. 

Only — 

He can't manage slow. 

He feels as if he's *ravishing* Treville's mouth — 

Treville is moaning and lapping and sucking *lightly* at Laurent's tongue, reaching up with his left hand — the one hand he *can* reach that far with — to cup Laurent's face — 

His hand is *shaking* — 

Laurent pulls back to *kiss* that hand, and bite it, and suck Treville's calluses — 

His *soldier's* calluses, and he *is* a soldier, and he will always *be* a soldier, and this will not *stop* him — 

"Oh, sir — *sir* — no, it bloody won't!" 

And Laurent hadn't meant for that to be *aloud*, but — 

But it's good, it's better, it's the salt of Treville's fingers on his tongue when he sucks them in, it's the tang of sweat *between* them — 

No, he needs more. He needs so much *more*. 

He pulls back and unlaces Treville's breeches at speed — 

"Please — please *hold* me again —" 

"Be *still*." 

"Fuck — I will! I will, sir!" 

Laurent *pants* — 

He wants to touch. 

He wants to touch *everywhere*. 

But...

But his mouth is already on the glans of Treville's cock — 

"UNH — *SIR* —" 

And his hands are already back on Treville's slim hips — 

And he tastes — like the answer to every question. 

Like the solution to every mystery. 

Like the *reason* people look at him as if he's positively *dim* sometimes, because this — this was right in front of his *face*!

"Please please please — please don't *stop*, sir —"

He hasn't *done* anything — certainly none of the techniques and tricks Treville had mentioned *liking*. Which means that Treville likes that it's him doing this, *wants* him doing this — 

But for how long? 

Had he dreamed of it?

Fantasized while Laurent blithely *interrogated* him about buggery? 

He has so many more *questions*!

And he'll *get* answers to all of them. He — 

Oh, but now he can *reward* Treville for his answers, for his beautiful honesty, for his ever-impressive *clarity* — 

Laurent sucks *hard* — 

Treville shouts — and it's muffled. He's biting his hand. Laurent doesn't *want* that, but he recognizes the *use*. 

He wants Treville in his *manor*, or Treville's own. He wants Treville in a *bed*, and — 

And the images there — 

Treville had spoken with such *relish* so many *times* of *fucking* his lovers, of fucking their mouths *and* their arses — 

And he'd said that he'd enjoyed being fucked, as well. 

That had made Laurent uncomfortable, at first. That had — and now he knows why. Now — 

He wants to do it. He wants to do it and not let anyone *else* — 

Perhaps Honoré — 

Oh, but Laurent is *painfully* hard in his own breeches, aching for more of exactly what he's doing, only somehow more *intense* — no, not somehow. 

He stops suckling at the glans and deliberately works to take more of Treville's cock into his mouth — 

There's a muffled *scream* — 

Treville is *fighting* Laurent's grip — and so Laurent tries one of the tricks Treville had mentioned, baring his teeth and scraping them up the length of Treville's cock — 

Treville *barks* a scream — 

And another — 

And *another* — 

And *another* — 

Laurent takes as much of him in as he can and suckles, soothes, *licks* — 

And Treville sobs and begins to spurt all over Laurent's mouth. He. 

Oh. 

Somehow, Laurent had expected more *warning* — 

For something so *momentous* — 

There's barely any time to hold Treville down with one arm and wrap his other fist around the base of his cock — 

To stroke and squeeze and — Treville has used this term habitually, and it's never felt more *correct* — milk him through his spend until every spasm is dry. 

Until Treville is whimpering and moaning — 

Whining for the *soft* suction Laurent can't help but — 

But he knows this. He understands the *realities* of sensitivity. 

He never wants to hurt Treville in unpleasant ways. 

He pulls back and kisses Treville's cock — 

Treville moans *again* — 

And Laurent can't keep himself from smiling at him. At — his lover. 

After a moment — it's clear that he's not focusing well — Treville grins back. "Sir..."

Laurent licks his lips, feeling — daring. "Is that truly what you want to call me? In private?" 

Treville blushes like a boy again. 

"Is that truly how you *think* of me?" 

Treville looks down — but only for a moment before he looks up with a rueful smile on his face. "I think of you as my brother. My — older brother."

And that — aches. That — 

"Sir? Do you... not like that?" 

"That's worth too *much* for my *tease* —" 

"*No*, it —" 

"Are you saying it *isn't*?" 

"It's worth bloody *everything*, it's just — I love it when you tease me. I love it when you *play* with me. I love it when you *lecture* me. I love it when you *interrogate* me. I love — everything you do."

Laurent — growls. 

"Oh — sir. What do you need? Do you... know?" 

"No. Which is why you're going to tell me," Laurent says, sitting back on his heels and opening his breeches. 

"Well, first, come *here*." 

"Treville —" 

"*Laurent*," Treville says, for the very first time, and raises an eyebrow. "Come here, over me. I can't *do* anything, but... you can." 

"I can't *hurt* you —" 

"I won't move a *muscle*, I promise. You can hold me down. I *promise* that I've dreamed of just that." 

Laurent pants — "I want you to tell me your dreams." 

Treville's mouth falls open — but only for a moment. "Yes — Laurent."

"I want you to *show* me —" Laurent growls at himself — 

And Treville grins and jerks his chin at him. "Something tells me I'm not the only one in this tent impatient for me to be healed anymore." 

Laurent blushes — "I — I apologize —" 

"Don't you *dare*. Every time you have the slightest hint of an 'unworthy' thought, I feel like less of a stain on *Creation*." 

Laurent *coughs* —

Treville grins wider. "Take your breeches all the way off? Let me *see* you." 

"You've seen me naked countless times, Treville —" 

"But never *for* me. Not the way I'm spread out naked for you." 

And there should be a point when revelations stop happening in any one night, but Laurent would be heartbroken if *these* stopped. This... 

Treville *is* naked for him — or mostly so; Laurent had left his breeches down around his knees. 

Treville is naked for *him*. 

Treville is *revealed* to him, like a gift —

Something that must be touched, caressed, examined in good light and — savoured.

"I think I like what *you're* thinking," Treville says, and grins more. 

"I was thinking that you were — are — a gift." 

Treville's jaw drops and he blinks. "I... do you always look like you want to *fuck* your gifts, Laurent?" 

"Only the best ones," he says, standing and stepping out of his breeches, and then straddling Treville's hips, letting their groins touch the way — and this revelation makes him *pant* — he's wanted. 

Treville groans for — yes, *for* him. "You're so *big*. You feel bloody *perfect*. But — not there."

Laurent manages — barely — to raise an eyebrow. 

Treville licks his lips and laughs. "No, I — believe me, I understand that eyebrow —" 

"Then —" 

"It'll hurt when you... thrust. It already hurts a little, if I'm honest —"

Laurent kneels up and does a terrible job of repressing another growl — 

"Oh, fuck, I didn't want you to do that," Treville says, laughing painfully and shaking his head — 

He's still *hard* — 

Laurent is — is *dripping* on him —

He can't — 

"I — Laurent, what are you doing with that handkerchief — no, no, sex is *supposed* to be messy —" 

"I don't want — to. I was about to tell you a lie," Laurent says, and frowns. Somewhat direfully. 

Treville raises an eyebrow of his own. "You *do* want to... drip on me? Maybe spend on me?" 

Laurent *pants* — "I want to *mark* you." 

"Oh — oh. Shit. I — the answer is *yes*, first of all —" 

"Do you *want* that —" 

"*Yes* —" 

"Or is it just something you'd *allow* —" 

"You're allowed *anything* with me, Laurent. I want —" Treville looks Laurent over *quickly*, *hungrily* — "I've wanted you for nearly three *years*." 

"You. Since we *met*?"

Treville looks *hard* into Laurent's eyes. "Since you took me in hand. Sir." 

Laurent *snatches* one hand out to *grip* Treville's throat — 

"*Fuck* —" 

"You were supposed to be more honest than that, recruit." 

And Treville's body is utterly loose, utterly — "Yes, sir. I apologize, sir. Teach me *better*, sir." 

"And. How am I to do that, recruit?"

Treville moans — 

Laurent *squeezes* — "Answer. Faster," he says, and watches Treville's lashes flutter, watches him darken with flush, watches his chest *hitch* —

He's harder. 

They both are. 

This is a mystery which *demands* examination, study, *care* — but right now Laurent can only reach for more, *strive* for more. 

He eases his grip — "How am I to teach you better?" 

"*Please*." 

"Please *what*." 

"Please, sir, please come up here and — and fuck my *mouth*." And Treville's eyes are wide and wanting — 

The images come immediately, hotly and *powerfully* — 

He's already *moving*, shuffling in his straddle of Treville's body — 

Moving and — 

He can't think. He can't *think* — no. No. He *must* think. He owes both of them that. 

He *stops* moving before he's quite close enough to — to do what Treville has *asked* of him — 

Treville *groans* — 

"Quiet."

Treville bites his *lip* — 

"We must think of your *back*, recruit."

Treville nods once, eyes — so *wide*. 

"You've had *difficulties* moving your head and neck — but."

Treville is panting and waiting and — so obviously *hoping* — 

"You won't be moving them. Will you. Answer aloud." 

"No, sir. Please, sir, you'll be holding me *still*." 

"You will... only move your lips and tongue. Perhaps your teeth. Answer." 

"*Yes*, sir. *Please*, sir —"

Laurent growls and *moves* — and the glans of his cock is on Treville's lip — 

He's looming terribly, graspingly — 

He already has one hand in Treville's too-long hair, gripping — 

*Pulling* — 

No, not that, not that, he's supposed to be holding Treville's head immobile, not — not. But there's a moment when Laurent can only stare at the image of Treville waiting for him, waiting for his order — or just his *thrust* — lips trembling and hair pulled *taut*...

It's too much that he didn't know he wanted this. 

It's too much that he would've slept peacefully through this night without so much as *wishing* for this. 

"You'll tell me *everything* from now on, recruit," Laurent says, and he's growling under his voice, needing — 

Treville's lashes are fluttering again — "Yes, sir, everything, sir, *please* —" 

"Your *breath*..." 

Treville focuses on him immediately... and then exhales *hot* on the glans of Laurent's cock. 

It twitches *hard* in Laurent's hand, *smacking* Treville's lip — 

Treville *grunts* — 

"Did you like that, recruit?" 

"Please, sir, *yes* —" 

Laurent smacks Treville with his cock more purposefully, gasping for the jar of it — 

For the way Treville *moans* for him — 

He smacks his mouth again, again and again — 

"Please, sir, please, sir, you can — oh, fuck, you *can't*," Treville says, and *groans* — 

"*What* can't I do?" 

"Slap — slap my face, sir. With your hard hands."

Laurent shudders and *twitches* again — "You've wanted *that*?" 

"I've wanted you to be — be *hard* on me, sir. Not — not necessarily all the time — mmgh —" 

And it seems as though that the only way to *survive* the heat, the wetness, the *softness* of Treville's mouth is to focus, as best as he can, on the other things he's doing: 

Adjusting his stance just so, to allow for the greatest possible depth without taxing Treville's back. 

Immobilizing Treville's head. 

Pausing to caress that face, that beloved face, that — 

And hasn't he always wanted some better way to *have* this face? Something more than the daily routine of command and subordination. Something more, even, than the decidedly unauthorized and *unorthodox* teasing that's existed between them nearly from the *beginning*. 

Treville has always been such a brilliant *boy* — 

So *beautiful* — 

But he's shaking now, and beginning to strain, beginning to try to *lift* his head — no. Laurent pushes him down — 

"*MM* —" 

And *thrusts* to get back in, *in* — 

Treville *gulps* — 

And there is a blank space — 

A heated, dark, tight — 

So *tight* — 

So — Laurent is *waiting* to regain his *thoughts*, but he can't — 

They're not — 

He's *thrusting*, he's — he's *fucking*, down and in and down and *in*, and the sounds Treville is making are so close to the sounds he makes other men make, other *boys* make — 

When he fucks their throats. 

Laurent gasps and stutters to a *stop* — 

Treville groans in his *chest*, vibrating *around* him, and Laurent realizes that he'd stopped while *lodged* in Treville's throat, that he'd — 

And then Treville begins to swallow around him, hard and rhythmic and so — 

*So* — 

Laurent groans and stares down into Treville's eyes, so wide and hopeful, needy, *hungry*, *worried* — 

Just as if he fears *displeasing* Laurent — 

Just as if that's *possible*. Laurent *digs* his fingertips *in* against Treville's scalp and thrusts again — 

Pants and thrusts *again* — 

Shakes — shakes *everywhere* — 

And Treville is shaking, too, strong left hand *trembling* on Laurent's thigh even as he strokes and caresses, even as he makes so many promises, so many wonderful *promises* with just his touch — 

"I *love* you!" And Laurent thinks that was far more of a *blurted* order than any sort of *worthy* declaration, but Treville *jerks* under him, making garbled *pained* noises even as Laurent *fucks* him — 

But the scents of his spend are in the air, familiar from countless nights of masturbation, and Laurent is aching, burning, *slick* with sweat and aching to use it to let Treville slip and judder and *move* against him, aching to *stay* this way for hours, days, sleek and rank and starved for each other — 

For this — 

But then Treville shuts his mouth tight again and sucks so *hard* — 

So perfectly *hard* — 

Laurent *shouts* — 

He knows he must be *bruising* Treville's scalp — 

Treville's lips are so *swollen* — 

Laurent can't — he's fucking Treville's mouth, his throat, so *hard* — 

He can't stop. 

He can't — 

He can *feel* himself leaking *copiously* down Treville's *throat* — 

And this time, when Treville looks up, his eyes are bright, wide, nearly drugged with *happiness* — 

They just get *more* so when Laurent *snarls* — 

"You're so *beautiful*!"

Treville *blinks* —

"Use your teeth on *me*!"

Treville bares his teeth *immediately*, and the sensations are hot, scoring, wild, *sharp* — 

Laurent *must* be fucking Treville too *hard* — 

But his eyes roll up with obvious *bliss*. His — and Laurent's cock jerks, spasms *hard* in Treville's throat even as Laurent *grinds* in — 

Grinds in so *deep* — 

He can't *stop* — 

Even though he's *shouting* — 

Even though he's spending, one *convulsive* spasm after another, and Treville has covered his teeth again so he can — can *milk* Laurent's cock with his lips — 

So firmly — 

So — 

The *lash* of his *tongue* — 

Laurent can only stop shouting to *growl* — 

And Treville is watching every moment of this, focusing hard on Laurent's face, *studying* — 

Drinking him in, in every possible way. 

"*Brother*," Laurent says. That was a growl, too. 

Treville *sucks* him again — 

Laurent *grunts* — and shakes his head once. He can manage no further coherence at the moment. 

Treville stops sucking immediately and simply... holds Laurent's cock in his mouth. 

Warms Laurent, while Laurent caresses his face and throat.

The intimacy is an obvious one, but it's also surprisingly... comfortable. For him, anyway. He could honestly stay in this position for *hours*, shifting only to reach for small things to ease Treville. But...

But. 

He has to be an *attentive* lover. To that end, he works on catching his breath, and finding the scrambled fragments of his intellect — those parts of himself which allow him to actually *speak*, rather than simply growl and make noise — and, when he's done with that... 

He can do nothing but caress Treville's beautiful face and have his cock warmed.

Treville smiles with his pale blue eyes and stays precisely where he's been put.

Laurent combs through Treville's hair with his fingers, worrying that the way his calluses catch on the soft strands will be enervating until Treville closes his *eyes* in a smile — 

And now every time he's spied — and spied *on* — Honoré cuddling and *petting* a drunken Treville is not only confusingly envy-inducing, but utterly sensible. For all of the *grizzling* Laurent has heard Treville do about being touched and coddled while sober...

This is something he *truly* enjoys. 

This is something... 

Of course Honoré knows it. 

Of course Honoré would take advantage of every *possible* opportunity to — "Have you *never* asked Honoré if the two of you might make love?" 

Treville opens his eyes — and blinks at him in a somewhat nonplussed manner. 

"I — I apologize. That was absolutely a non sequitur." 

Treville nods slowly, and in small enough motions that he dislodges Laurent's cock not at all. 

And the realities of the situation sink in. He has questions. To get at least most of them answered *well*, he will have to remove his cock from Treville's mouth. 

The fact that this isn't, truly, a tragedy doesn't make it *feel* like less of one. 

Still, Laurent pulls out — 

"You didn't have to do that, sir —" 

"Brother," Laurent corrects with hopeful force, moving out of his straddle and crouching beside Treville's pallet again. 

"And you *really* didn't have to do that — brother —" 

"Little brother —" 

"Oh, fuck, that's *hot* —" 

Laurent grins. "And warm, too, yes?" 

"*Yes*. And I — I love *you* —" 

"You've been telling me that in countless ways for years. Haven't you." 

Treville stares at him, gaze naked and — still so *hungry*. 

Laurent nods. "Little brother. I promise to be more astute in the future." 

Treville blushes. "I — I promise to be more clear." 

Laurent growls. "Good boy. Tell me why you haven't made love with Honoré. You look at him in *many* of the same ways you look at me. I know you desire him — and *have* desired him for, perhaps, even longer than you have desired me." 

Treville smiles ruefully. "I... I did try with him. The *first* morning I woke up in his arms after he told me he knew I was a buggerer. That was about seven months ago now —" 

"The day the two of you were training separately?"

Treville blinks at him again.

Laurent smiles wryly. "It was a memorable occasion," he says, and reaches to cup Treville's face. "Did you... argue?"

"No, nothing like that. I woke up, realized I was on Honoré's lap, felt his..." And Treville looks down and flushes. "I climbed him like a tree. Went for a kiss. He pushed me away — gently. Told me that he'd only wanted a cuddle. He looked... so shocked. That I'd ever..." Treville shakes his head. "I went to go soak my head, and then train on my own. He tracked me down after I skipped dinner in the mess — *brought* me food — and... joked with me. Played with me. The way we always did. He didn't say a word about what I'd done, and he. He touched me just the same as he always did, and his eyes promised it would be all *right*." Treville growls and looks at him. "I knew I — couldn't mess it up. Couldn't — ask too much." 

"Oh... little brother —" 

"He's — he's always been my brother —"

"Brothers are *faithful* —" 

"I won't make him — put up with —" Treville shakes his head once, with finality. "Anyway. That's why. Why... did you want to know? Are you... jealous?" 

Laurent frowns and strokes Treville's cheekbone with his thumb. There is something fundamentally incorrect here, but the solution to it is not presenting itself with any clarity. He will simply have to give the matter thought. 

"Sir — brother?" 

"I'm not jealous of Honoré."

"No?"

"That surprises you?" 

"It would make sense. You've clearly been thinking about me and Honoré being... together. And. You always separate us when you want to talk to me about... sexual things. Intimate things."

Laurent blinks. The first is correlation without causation. The second... may not be.

Treville smiles wryly. "It's all right, you know. It won't happen with Honoré. And — I'm yours —"

"You're just as much his as you are mine," Laurent says absently — 

"Sir —"

"Shh." 

"I —" 

"Let me think," Laurent says, and presses a little firmly with his thumb-callus. 

Treville grunts — and subsides. 

Laurent turns away from his beautiful face and... considers. He *does* always separate them. And he'd done it, at first, because it was the best way to punish the biggest troublemakers among the recruits — and now that they'll both be inducted officially within months, they've gotten even worse — but then because...

He hadn't *quite* been telling himself the lie that it was for the same reason, that he was always taking Treville *when* they separated the two of them for the same reason. 

Treville answered all of his questions, and filled his tent — or his quarters, depending — with laughter and knowledge and... 

His scents. 

His helpless sounds of pleasure. 

In retrospect, there had been, within Laurent, a growing *greed* for all of those things — and more — and that greed had been served and served well by every *opportunity* to separate Treville from Honoré, to have him for himself, to... take all of his *time*. 

At least for a little while. 

But is that the same as jealousy?

Laurent turns back to Treville. "I don't... want to take what Honoré has with you."

Treville grins. "My sore throat says you *definitely* want more than *that* —"

"Stop. You know what I meant." 

Treville pants —

*Searches* him — 

And nods. "You don't want to take anything away from.. either of us. You just want to... add." 

"Yes." 

Treville nods again."Then — you have to stop leaving. When Honoré comes to visit me, I mean." 

Laurent blinks. "Little brother...?" 

Treville smiles ruefully. "That — right now I have a brother over *here*, and a brother over *here*. And — Honoré really loves you, too, but he doesn't know you like I do. And you don't know him. And that's. That should change, I think. At least in private." And Treville's gaze is so *hopeful*... 

Laurent flushes. "I've... dreamed..." 

"You... of what, brother?" 

"A new regiment. A *better* one. One made up of — and *commanded* by — only the bravest, most talented, and most *intelligent* men." 

"Oh. Oh... but — how —" 

"I don't know. *Yet*. But I already know you and Honoré will be with me in it." 

Treville grins. "You don't want to change the Army. You want to change the *world*."

"Mm. Well. One step at a time, recruit." 

Treville snorts. "As you *say*, sir." 

And Laurent can only stare, only smile, helpless, and — 

Treville is his *lover*!

There is no one more worthy.


	6. Treville is the kind of boy who names his car 'Murder Machine', and then wonders why no one will insure him.

Of course it still takes weeks more for Treville to fully recover — including an extra *two* weeks added on when an impatient and *nearly*-healed Treville had tried to do far too much conditioning and set his progress back — but... 

He does. 

He does. 

If anything, he's more flexible than he had been, more *supple* from all the work they'd done together — and it shows in his eager, vicious, *relentless* swordplay. 

It will take time for him to regain his full strength and stamina, but not that much time, as Treville is entirely himself, and he will push himself to the very limits of sense.

In this moment, Laurent is watching him do just that by practicing his horsemanship on one of the more evil-minded horses at this garrison. 

The inspiration for Meutrière's perfectly awful name may or may not have come from Treville, himself — the stableboys have been remarkably coy about this — but she's certainly one of Treville's favourites, for all that she seems to view all her riders as equally worthy of torment. 

Treville isn't handling her with as *much* ease as he would have before his injury, but... there's no need to intervene. 

And Honoré moves up to join him with a bowl of hazelnuts, offering them. 

"No, thank you." 

"Heh."

"Mm?" 

"Don't you think you ought to be keeping your strength up, sir? What with Fearless being up and about, and all." 

Laurent sighs. Honoré's sense of humour and Treville's have much in common. But — "A good diet and vigorous exercise will stand anyone in good stead when it comes time for *more* vigorous exercise, recruit." 

Honoré thunders laughter. 

Laurent remembers when he didn't have a voice one could feel in one's chest at a *distance*; a lush, full beard; and a height to necessitate ducking under lintels... but those days are in the dim, dead past, at this point. 

Honoré is seventeen. 

Laurent dreams at least fifteen times a week of going to his childhood home and *gently* kidnapping three or four more of his twelve siblings. More if one of his commanding officers has been sadistic enough to make Honoré wrestle someone. 

Anyone. 

Anyone, at *all* — 

"Something's got you thinking happy thoughts, sir." 

Well... Laurent smiles. "You." 

"I didn't do it, and whoever said I did it is a black-souled miscreant — wait, you're happy. Why are you happy about me?" 

Laurent looks up and smiles more. "Because you're precisely who you are."

Honoré gives him a queer look for that, but he nods. They both turn back to watching Treville putting Meutrière through her paces, despite her best efforts to the contrary. "He always loves the bloody-minded ones best," Honoré says — with warmth and obvious love — and eats another few hazelnuts. 

"I can't help but think that he feels some measure of kinship —" 

More thundered laughter. "He absolutely does! They're all his spiritual brethren!"

"Is that why you refused him? You prefer less-irascible lovers?" 

Honoré goes pale as a *sheet* — 

And Laurent *stops* for a moment — 

Remembers that just because he's been waiting to ask this question for weeks that Honoré hasn't been waiting to *answer* it — 

"I apologize —" 

"Uh. I... uh..." 

"That was inappropriate —" 

"It's just —" 

"You should feel no *obligation* to *answer* —" 

"No, sir, no, I know," Honoré says, and gestures for peace before glancing back at Treville for a moment — and then turning back to Laurent. "Just — he won't leave you," he says, in a quieter voice than Laurent has ever heard him *use*. "He won't — I've known all along that he'd do *anything* for you. If. If you're worried..."

Laurent blinks. "Did it seem as though I was?" 

Honoré stares at him for a long moment, and then — "Sir, I'll be honest, I don't know what it seemed like. That — that was a bit of a shock." And he laughs nervously. 

Laurent nods thoughtfully. "I'm not worried," he says. "He's given me his love, and I've known for quite some time that he doesn't do that lightly." 

"No, no he doesn't, and —" 

"He's given it to you, as well." 

Honoré blushes hard — and turns away. "He gave it to me, sir. And. And I didn't do anything like the right things with it."

And the mystery... clarifies. "You weren't ready for him." 

Honoré laughs again, but this time it's humourless and sharp. "Who the bloody hell — but. You were. And that's just the way it has to be —" 

"No." 

"What — what?" 

"It is *not* the way it has to be, Honoré. You are his brother, and his love —" 

"Wait, wait, are you bloody giving him *up*?" And Honoré whirls on him. "You can't do that! You can't bloody —" 

Laurent holds up a hand. 

"Don't —" 

"Quiet. I would never give him up. I would never let him *go*." 

Honoré frowns and shakes his head. "Then — what are you saying?" 

"That Treville is still in love with you, and that *I* see no reason for the two of us not to... share," Laurent says, and raises an eyebrow. 

Honoré drops his hazelnuts and stares at him, somewhat slack-jawed. 

"I know the arrangement would be a trifle unorthodox —"

"You're the craziest bastard I know, sir. And I'm *including* Fearless." 

"Hm. Does this mean you're attracted to me? You seem to have a liking for the mentally imbalanced, after all." 

Honoré laughs like cannonfire — 

And Treville rides Meutrière over to their section of fence. "All right, all right, now you *have* to tell me what this conversation's about —" 

"Sharing *your* arse, Fearless!"

*Treville* blanches and looks back and forth between them — "You — *sir* —" 

"He's agreed, Treville." 

Treville *flushes*, just that quickly — 

He looks like he's going to *faint* — 

Meutrière might take the opportunity to *trample* him — 

"*Dismount*, Treville." 

"*Yes*, sir!" he says, and does so with easy, nimble grace, letting Meutrière have her head and wander off bad-naturedly. "Honoré... what?" 

"I didn't *say* I'd do it — except that I really did," Honoré says, and smiles ruefully, blushing hard. "I wanted to that first day. I wanted to... I wanted you to ask me *again*, Fearless, so I could say... something. I wanted you to *kiss* me again. Shit, I didn't know *what* to say! You were in my *lap* because I *needed* you there, and you felt so good, and I was *hard*, and I wasn't thinking about *any* of that, just. Just the smell of your sweaty hair. 

"And then... and then you woke up and *went* for me, and my mind shut off the rest of the way. I just — I suddenly had to *think* about why it was so easy to understand, all along, that you were a buggerer when no one else seemed to catch a hint, why I needed to be so close to you every *second*, why I needed my *hands* on you every second, even though it made you *fuss* —" 

"I love your hands on me." 

"You don't!" 

"I pretend I don't so I don't look — obvious," Treville says, and nods to Laurent. "You always knew I loved it when the Lieutenant hauled me around like a puppy no matter how much noise I made about it." 

Honoré blinks more — and looks thoughtful. And then turns to *him*. "He's been being honest with you? Telling you all his little secrets?" 

Laurent hums. "It's immensely rewarding to reward him for doing so." 

"Oh — shit. Fearless, by the time we're done with you, you're going to be bloody *incapable* of keeping secrets!"

Laurent very much likes that 'we'. 

Treville looks a bit stunned. 

But... "Honoré..." 

"Mm? What is it, sir?" 

"We're not going to *be* done with him. *Ever*."

And Honoré's bright, nut-brown eyes go soft, warm — "Is that an order, sir?"

Laurent raises an eyebrow. 

Honoré laughs hard. "Well, you heard the man, Fearless. Hope you didn't have any plans that didn't include a mad lieutenant and a giant mound of hair." 

Treville gives Laurent a look that makes Laurent feel ten feet tall and like a squalling infant, at once. It's too worshipful, too loving, too — 

Laurent stands straight. He will be *worthy* of that look for *every* day of his life. 

He will give everything *to* be worthy of that look. 

For now, though... "I'm going to be returning to my quarters after inspection," Laurent says, to both of them. "If one or both of you would care to follow, you would be more than welcome." 

Honoré looks... Laurent has shocked him again. 

It is, perhaps, unworthy to enjoy moments like these quite this much.

But, then again, Treville can see him doing it — 

Answers the unworthily sly smile on Laurent's face with a *grin* of his own, and — "Yes, *sir*."

"Uh. Yes, sir," Honoré says, still blinking. 

Laurent inclines his head to both of them, and turns to begin his inspection. There are a great deal more plots, schemes, and general acts of questionable behaviour now that Treville is back on his feet, and thus a great deal more work for him to do. 

He can't help but relish it — nearly — as much as everything else about his new life. 

end.


End file.
